The Wraith of Rosethwaite Manor
by Keitorin Asthore
Summary: Apple Chandler was sent to be a maid in Rosethwaite Manor. She never expected to encounter a monster in its halls...and she never expected to fall in love with him either. A retelling of Beauty and the Beast.
1. Prologue

He was alone when the old gypsy came. The servants were there, of course, but he never really thought of them. Madam Grace was taking her afternoon rest after teatime, his tutors (all seven of them) had left for the day, and his pretty mother was out riding with his father the king. So when he saw the old woman hobbling towards the kitchen gardens as he perched on the branches of the apple tree, he thought nothing of hopping down to see what she wanted.

"What're you here for, old lady?" he demanded.

The old gypsy looked up. He took a step back. She was old, older than he expected, older than Madam Grace even, and she was forty-seven. The gypsy's face was a maze of deep wrinkles and pockmarks. A narrow scar ran across her lip, twisting her mouth into a grimace. Her ragged layers of shawls and tattered skirts showed the dirt and wear of years on the roads, but a great gold ring glittered in her nose. "What is your name, little boy?" she asked, leaning forward on her walking stick.

"I am Adam," he said, sticking out his narrow chest in pride. "And I'm not a little boy. I'm eleven."

"Adam," she repeated. She was only a little taller than he was. "Adam, child of who?"

Adam scowled. "Everyone knows that," he scoffed. "My father is the king of Glauerhaven, and my mother is the Countess Constanza."

The old gypsy woman laughed at that, the raspy sounds grating on his ears like Master Buckley's chalk on the blackboard during a geography lesson. "The king's bastard, eh?" she cackled. "Ah, so that's what you are."

Adam flushed hot. "Hold your tongue, old lady!" he said, giving her a shove, She caught her balance with her cane. "I'm the son of the king!"

The old gypsy lady stabbed her walking stick into the cobblestones of the garden path. "You're the bastard," she repeated.

"I'm not," he said emphatically. "Now get out of here, you old bat."

"I've got business," she said, shaking her head. The ring in her hooked nose glittered in the late afternoon sunlight. She reached deep into the pockets of her skirts.

Adam folded his arms. "I'm not going to buy nothing," he said.

"I never said anything about buying," she said. She pulled out her hands and showed him what she held.

"Seeds?" he said, peering closely.

"Rose seeds," said the old gypsy woman.

Adam slapped her hands away. The rose seeds fell to the ground in a shower, scattering along the cobblestones. "We don't have roses here," he said. "They make my mother sick."

"There once were roses here," the gypsy woman said sternly.

"When my mother came here my father the king had 'em all pulled up,em just because she didn't like them," Adam retorted. "I told you we don't have roses here!"

With a sharp motion too fast for a woman of her age the gypsy woman grabbed his chin and pulled his face close to hers. Adam breathed heavily, too startled to move. The old gypsy studied him, her milky dark eyes intense, her breath hot on his face. "Young and impetuous," she said. "Hot headed, bad tempered. Spoiled and selfish." She turned his chin, looking at him this way and that. The intensity softened slightly into a tight smile. "But there is still good. Still good. Just buried deeply. Deeply like a rose in winter." She stepped back, still smiling the odd tight little smile. "The queen thought there was no good, but I can see it. I can see it clear." She let go. Adam fell back, rubbing his chin and jaw where the old woman had gripped it, leaving white finger marks on the reddened skin. "I see it clear. The queen will be displeased, but what can I do? The good is hidden. I will just hide it more."

She turned and hobbled down the path, her stick chinking against the stones, the golden ring glittering, the strings of tarnished coins wrapped around her thick waist jingling as she hummed a minor key melody. Adam leaned heavily against the apple tree, his insides quavering.

The sun had begun to set over the forest ridge, turning the trees black and the seas pink and gold, when Constanza and the king returned from their ride. The stableboys took their mounts as they strolled towards the manor. Adam looked up as they passed by. Constanza caught the movement. "Adam?" she called, and skipped towards him, her blue riding habit rustling. "Adam, darling, whatever are you doing in the kitchen gardens?" She drew back sharply, pulling back her skirts. "And what are all of these thorns doing here?"

The king knelt, plucking a bit of the vine. "Wild roses," he said.

Adam turned his head limply, leaning heavily against the trunk of the apple tree. "I don't feel well," he murmured, and he fell into the growing carpet of thorns.

-

-

-

**Author's Notes:**

I began this story about two years ago…just a little idea of what Beauty and the Beast would be like from the Beast's perspective. But for some reason, it just wasn't jelling.

Now I'm working at Disney World, at the Beauty and the Beast show in Disney's Hollywood Studios…and I finally figured out how I was going to approach the story! I don't know how far I'll get, but let's see!


	2. Part I Scene I

"Apple?" the housekeeper repeated. "No God-fearing child is named 'Apple'."

Apple flushed a deeper shade of rose. "It's not my given name. Papa always called me that because-"

"Then what, pray tell, is your Christian name?" Mrs. Langley interrupted.

"It's Anne Paige Elizabeth," she recited hastily. "But Papa always-"

"Anne Paige is a fine name," Mrs. Langley said. She turned the handle of the narrow white door and ushered her inside. "I shall introduce you as such to the other servants. Dinner is at six o'clock. The staircase on the left will bring you to our hall." She stepped into the hall and gave a final glance over Apple. "Welcome to Rosethwaite Manor."

And with that the housekeeper left, her long skirt rustling. The door clicked shut behind her. Apple sighed heavily and let go of the carpetbag. The worn leather handles slipped from her nervous, sweaty grasp and the bag, its tweedy sides pilled with age, plummeted to the creaking wooden floor with a soft thump. She suddenly felt too tired to take another step, even to reach the narrow bed pushed against the wall. Apple plunked down on the floor, the skirts of her black dress billowing for a moment before plastering to her damp knees. She sat there for a while, staring blankly at the plank floor without noticing the swirls and dots of the wood grain. The quiet of the bland little room was nearly unbearable after the roaring chaos of the milkman's cottage.

The little clock on the north wall struck a quarter till. Apple blinked, startled out of her lost thoughts. She pushed herself up, brushing the dust off her skirts, and surveyed the room. Besides the bed with its oversized quilt, there was a tall chifferobe and a small washstand with a chipped bowl and pitcher. A ladderback chair stood forlornly in the corner, its wicker seat too frayed and chipped to be comfortable. Apple scooted the heavy carpetbag over to the chair with her foot. She turned to leave, but she hesitated for a moment. Hastily she yanked the carpetbag open and pulled out a doll- old, faded, and comfortable. "Hullo, Ruby," she said aloud to the painted face. Her voice sounded strange bouncing off the bare silent walls. The doll only smiled the same cheerful grin she had beamed for the past ten years. Apple studied her for a moment, then hugged her. Carefully she set the doll on the thin pillow. Despite the barrenness of the room, it lost some of strangeness now that a familiar piece of home was there.

Apple left the sagging carpetbag behind the chair. Her belongings would keep until after dinner; she could unpack then. She stepped into the hall, a dim narrow passageway lined with narrow white doors like hers, and looked it up and down. It was silent and empty, lit red from the setting sun. Her stomach twinged; she couldn't tell if it was from anxiety or hunger. Cautiously she crept into the hall, her best black leather shoes squeaking. She found the narrow and uncarpeted staircase on the left, but as she reached for the banister she was startled.

A loud, bellowing, eerie howl echoed through the manor. Apple scrambled back, tripping over her heavy shoes as her heart pounded in her ears. The cry died down slowly as it reverberated down the halls. All she could think of was the milkman's oldest daughter's parting words when she left earlier that afternoon.

"Rosethwaite Manor's haunted," Patsy Leadbetter had said, her round mouth twisting around the deliciously terrifying word _haunted_. "They say a wolf the size of a grown-up man runs up and down the halls every night, looking for the hunter who killed 'im."

"You don't have any idea what you're talking about, Patsy," Apple had shot back. "You're just trying to scare me, and it's not going to work." After that, Patsy teased her, and Apple lost her temper, and what was supposed to be a simple goodbye ended with a punch in the face and a bloody nose, and Apple was escorted from the Leadbetter's cottage in disgrace. It seemed like nothing at the time- just another of Patsy's attempts to embarrass her- but now that the raw call died out along the hallway, Apple would have welcomed even Patsy's company if it meant she didn't have to be here alone.

She clutched the railing, her heart thudding quickly in her chest, too startled to go forward or go back. But dimly she heard the clock strike six, and reluctantly Apple made her way down to the servants' dining hall.


	3. Part I Scene II

Apple followed the sounds of soft chatter and the smell of roasted chicken. The narrow staircase widened and curved, and she suddenly found herself standing in the manor's enormous kitchen.

The housekeeper who had escorted her into the manor sat at the head of a broad maple table, writing out a list in neat, perfect penmanship. She chatted amiably with a young woman of sixteen or so who stood at the stove. The girl tucked a loose strand of nutmeg-colored hair behind her ear as she stirred the contents of a large kettle. Apple hung back in the doorway, listening to their conversation. "Do you think the boy from the Julian farm will be at the market next week?" Mrs. Langley was asking. "I meant to buy more potatoes."

"I'm not quite sure," the girl said, tossing her thick braid of hair over her shoulder. "But most likely Jonathan will know."

The back door of the kitchen swung open. "What will I know?" a curly-headed young man said. Apple hid farther in the doorway, even though his round face seemed friendly.

"Will the boy from the Julian farm be at market?" Mrs. Langley repeated, holding her pen above the page.

The boy called Jonathan shook his head, curls bouncing over his ears. "'Fraid not. The Julians come in only every other week."

Mrs. Langley dipped her pen in the little pot of ink and scratched out a line on her page. "We'll just have to do without for a while," she declared. "There's not too many mouths to feed, after all. At least mouths that require vegetables."

"Isn't there a new girl coming?" the girl asked. She opened a cupboard and pulled down a stack of bowls. Apple's mouth watered as she ladled out spoonfuls of thick stew into each one.

"She was brought in from the village just this afternoon," Mrs. Langley said absently, her pen scratching across the page. "A nice child, although the milkman's wife says she has quite a temper."

"Is she a little bit of a thing with red hair?" Jonathan asked, dipping a spoon into the stew; the girl slapped his hand playfully.

Mrs. Langley frowned. "I believe she's a redhead," she said. "Why do you ask?"

Jonathan pointed his spoon directly at Apple. "I believe I've found her," he said.

Both the girl and Mrs. Langley whipped their heads around. Apple felt the heat rush into her cheeks. "Don't gawk in the doorway like a simpleton, child, come in," the housekeeper scolded. Apple stepped forward hesitantly. "This is Anne Paige, the new maid."

The girl smiled at her as she set the full bowls on the table. "Come and eat," she said cheerfully, pulling out a chair. Apple slid into it, smiling shyly. "I'm Meg Brayden. And this is Jonathan Dennis. He's the stableboy."

Jonathan ran a hand through his thick blond curls. "Not just the stableboy anymore," he boasted. "I run the whole stables by myself, I do."

Meg rolled her eyes as she set out a willow basket draped with a clean gingham cloth and filled with bread. "And you won't let us forget it," she said.

Mrs. Langley set her list and pen aside. "Meg, call for Wyborn," she said. "He's in his pantry, and I'll not have him miss dinner again." Meg nodded and wiped her hands on her apron. "Go on and eat, child. Don't let it get cold."

Apple scooped up a spoonful of the rich-smelling chicken stew. It was warm and well-spiced and the vegetables were cooked just right. It was miles better than anything she had eaten at the Leadbetter house in the past three months, even though it wasn't as good as the stew that the cook at Candlewick Orchards made.

Meg glided through the swinging door, followed by a thin, bookish man in his early fifties. "I'm sorry," he sighed. "I didn't mean to miss dinner again."

"You didn't miss anything, Archie, it just started," Jonathan said, gesturing grandly with his spoon.

"This is Anne Paige Chandler," Mrs. Langley said as she smoothed a large napkin over her lap. "Anne Paige, this is Archibald Wyborn, the butler of Rosethwaite Manor."

The butler smiled at her, his brown button eyes twinkling behind round spectacles. "How do you do?" he said. Apple smiled shyly at him, swallowing her mouthful of stew.

Jonathan frowned. "Chandler?" he repeated. "Not Chandler, like the owner of Candlewick Orchards?"

The chicken stew lost some of its flavor. Apple put her spoon down. "Yes, those Chandlers," she said.

"I heard Loyal Chandler died about three months ago," Jonathan said, scratching behind his ear. "How're you related to him?"

Her stomach turned. "He's my father," she said.

Meg turned back to the stove, smoothing her hands on her apron. Wyborn and Mrs. Langley studied their bowls carefully. Only Jonathan continued to stare at her. "Oh gods, I'm sorry," he said. "An accident, wasn't it?"

Apple twisted her fingers together under the table. "There was a lightning storm," she said. "He went out to check the Ruby Spices, and he got hit."

"Oh," said Jonathan.

Mrs. Langley cleared her throat. "Well, Anne Paige, you'd best finish your dinner and head off to bed," she said. "You'll begin your training in the morning."

Apple stared down at the brown mess in her bowl and half heartedly chased a chunk of carrot with her spoon. The other servants ate quietly. "If your father's dead, doesn't that make you some kind of heiress?" Jonathan blurted out.

"Oh, _really_," Meg scolded, cuffing him on the ear.

"I'm to get Candlewick ten years from now, when I'm of age," Apple said glumly, reciting the lines from her father's will. "But the trust…the trust…"

"Trustees?" Wyborn supplied.

Apple nodded. "They decided to rent the farm out instead. I was living at the milkman's house until Mrs. Leadbetter heard you were looking for a maid."

Again the other servants looked at their bowls. "Well," Mrs. Langley said briskly. "I'm sure you'll find this a decent place to work. Rosethwaite Manor is a royal estate, but the king has made it plain that his visits here will be quite rare, as his wife the queen and the three princesses prefer to live in the city. We are only to maintain the manor in his absence and offer shelter to those lost in the woods."

"And in the meantime, we mostly have the run of the place," Jonathan interjected.

Mrs. Langley stood up, brushing off her skirts. "If you're a good girl, mind your manners, and work hard, you'll find life here pleasant enough," she said. She reached into a drawer by the stove, pulled out a candlestick and a creamy white candle, and lit it. "Just always remember to take this with you if you travel the corridors at night."

Apple stood, fumbling around the chair as she took the offered candle. "Why?" she said.

"One is easily lost in the corridors," Mrs. Langley said. "You'll want a light."

Apple gripped the candlestick tightly and cupped her other hand underneath it, catching the dripping wax. She glanced up and down the table. "Thank you," she said, unsure of what she should do.

"Good night, child," Wyborn said.

Apple turned to climb the stairs. "Be in the kitchen at seven sharp," the housekeeper warned.

"Yes, Mrs. Langley," she said softly.

The woman patted her on the shoulder; Apple looked up. "Call me Madam Grace, child, everyone does," she said. The sharp lines around her faded blue eyes softened. "Good night."

"Good night," Apple murmured. Cupping her hand around the meek candle flame, she climbed the kitchen stairs to her unfamiliar new bedroom.


	4. Part I Scene III

The sun was just beginning to peek over the mountains when Apple woke up. For a moment she clutched Ruby to her chest, staring bleary-eyed at the unfamiliar white plaster walls. But then she remembered, and she set the doll aside, climbing out of the bed.

Madam Grace was already in the kitchen. "Sit," she said, without preamble. Apple obeyed. Madam Grace spooned a thick porridge smelling of cinnamon and brown sugar into a bowl and handed to her. "Eat quickly. You'll start your chores today."

Apple took a bite warily. She had never been fond of porridge, but it didn't seem like a good idea to begin her new job by complaining. Madam Grace paid no heed to Apple's hesitancy, and instead pointed at several aprons draped over the chair at the head of the table. "Those are for you, child," she said. "They might be a tad long. We don't have much call for clothing for an eight-year-old girl here."

She flushed. "Ten," Apple mumbled.

Madam Grace did a doubletake. "You're rather small for ten, aren't you," she commented. Apple stretched her legs until her toes touched the floor and sat up as straight as possible. Madam Grace sighed. "Never mind. You've got time to grow." The housekeeper picked up one of the small pinafores and shook it out. "Tie this on as soon as you've finished eating."

Apple managed to choke down half the bowl of porridge while Madam Grace tidied the kitchen. When she finished, she pulled the pinafore over her head and tied it clumsily in the back; the hemline was longer than her black dress. Madam Grace tugged on it. "Meg can help you hem your aprons," she declared. "You can sew, can't you?"

"A little," Apple said. "Mostly embroidery."

"Embroidery?" Madam Grace repeated. "What use is-" She broke off in the middle of her sentence, looked Apple up and down, and then reached for a ring of brass keys hanging from a hook near the door. "I dare say your father never expected you to end up a maid, did he now. Never mind. Meg can teach you. Now, come along."

Apple trotted obediently behind her, doing her best to avoid tripping on the hem of the pinafore. The dutch door at the end of the kitchen led to a pretty, spacious room in cream and gold. "This is the breakfast room," Madam Grace explained. "The everyday dining room is to the left, the formal to the right. You'll learn your way around soon enough."

Apple didn't entirely believe her. The housekeeper led her through mazes of interlocking rooms and zigzagging halls, through morning rooms and drawing rooms and parlors. "Your primary duty is to maintain the rooms," Madam Grace said. "Dusting, airing, et cetera. The king rarely visits Rosethwaite, but we have been instructed to have the manor ready at all times." Apple stepped around a suit of armor propped up in the corner of a landing and took the steps two at a time to keep up with the housekeeper's long strides. "Many people find themselves lost in these woods, especially during winter storms. King Victor wishes us to extend our hospitality to travelers." Madam Grace halted in front of a set of beautifully carved double doors; Apple skidded on her toes to avoid running into her. "Every day you are to clean this suite. Change the linens, fluff the pillows, clean the water closet. But you are not to play here, understand?"

Apple nodded. Madam Grace took a large beautiful key off her ring and handed to her. "Certain visitors meet certain…requirements," she explained. "If those requirements are met, I will instruct you to allow the visitor access to this suite. You will then be excused from your typical duties to wait upon the princess."

"The princess?" Apple repeated, staring at the key. The top was formed of intricate scrollwork and studded with tiny pearls.

Madam Grace frowned. "Not necessarily a princess," she hedged. "But the occupant should be treated as such. Do you understand?"

"Yes, ma'am," Apple said. "But-"

Madam Grace turned sharply and led her down another hallway. Apple dropped the key in her pocket and ran to catch up. "You are also expected to assist Meg with household chores," she said briskly. "Cooking, baking, mending. Laundry is also done twice a week: washing, drying, and pressing."

"Yes, ma'am," Apple said again, taking two steps to each of the housekeeper's long ones.

"However, you are only a child, after all," Madam Grace said. "You are allowed an hour every morning in the manor's library to study your lessons. I shan't let you grow up uneducated just because you are working. You are also given Sundays off, to attend church in the village and visit with your little friends. I will instruct Meg and Jonathan to allow you to ride with them."

"Yes, ma'am," Apple repeated.

Madam Grace slowed her pace as they entered a large, high-ceilinged room. Four tall, broad staircases stretched away from the center of the room, lit by candles in golden sconces. Apple turned in a small circle, staring agape at the tall ceiling with its delicate frescos and the high walls covered in intricate carvings. Madam Grace cleared her throat; Apple halted and clasped her hands behind her back. "The manor is a large place, and it is easy to find yourself lost within the halls," she said. "This is the center of the house. If you are ever lost, try to find the center."

Madam Grace's footsteps echoed on the polished floors, only slightly muffled by her long skirts. Apple followed, the squeaking of her best leather shoes suddenly amplified to a deafening level. "This staircase leads to the east wing, where the bedrooms and the princess suite are located," she explained. "The south leads to the kitchen and our quarters, and the north to the library and the ballroom, amongst others. I trust you will be able to find your way from this point." The housekeeper turned towards the south. "Now come along. I'll show you where the dust rags are kept."

"I suppose these stairs lead to the west wing?" Apple ventured.

Madam Grace stopped and wheeled about sharply. "You are not to go there," she said.

Apple took a step back. "Why not?" she said.

"The west wing is forbidden to all of us, except Shamus," Madam Grace snapped.

"Who's Shamus?" Apple blinked.

Madam Grace scowled, the lines on her forehead and around her eyes deepening. The candles cast heavy shadows across her face. "Shamus minds the west wing," she snapped. "You'll meet him soon enough. But if any of us catches you in the west wing, you can be sure of your punishment. Young maids are easy to replace if they're impertinent and reckless." She turned away. "Now, come along, and mind yourself."

Apple lingered a moment longer, staring at the west stairs. They looked no different than the others, except for the red velvet rope tied between the bottom posts. Visions of a wolf the size of a carthouse danced in her mind's eye; she took several quick steps back, unwilling to turn around for fear of what might leap on her unawares. But finally she turned on her toes and ran after Madam Grace.


	5. Part I Scene IV

"I trust you'll be able to fulfill your duties," Madam Grace said, holding the door to the kitchen.

"I suppose," Apple mumbled. The kitchen smelled like freshly baked bread; her stomach rumbled.

The pretty housemaid turned around, the bib of her apron and the tip of her pert nose dusted with white flour. "Done with your training?" she said cheerfully. "It's another hour till dinner, though."

"Anne Paige, stay here and help Meg," Madam Grace commanded. "You might as well start your work now. I'll return when dinner is prepared." She swept out of the room.

Meg dusted off her hands. "I'll wash, you dry," she smiled. Apple sidled up to the sink as she pumped water into the cast iron sink. "The manor's a bit intimidating, isn't it?"

"It's awfully big" Apple said.

Meg handed her a dripping ceramic mixing bowl. "I remember my first day here," she said. "I was no bigger than you are. And the manor used to be full of people then, of course."

"Were you in the kitchen?" Apple asked.

"Not until I was older. I started in the nursery," Meg said. "Oh, just put that plate on the sideboard, dear."

Apple obeyed. "Whose nursery?" she asked.

"The son of the countess," Meg said. "You heard about the countess, of course. She lived here with her little son for ten years."

"Why?" Apple said. She polished the bottom of the mixing bowl until it caught the light. "Isn't this the king's house?"

Meg smiled ruefully. "The countess and the king are…friends," she said. "You know…_friend _friends."

"But do you…oh," Apple said. "Oh." Her round cheeks flushed red.

Meg dropped a measuring cup into the full sink. "When his little lordship was born, the king had them moved here, away from the queen," she explained. "The manor was full in those days. Balls and banquets and gardens and such."

"Where is everyone now?" Apple asked.

Meg turned to the counter and vigorously scrubbed the well-floured baking board. "His young lordship went off to school, and the countess returned to the king's court," she said nonchalantly. "Can you put away the bread, Anne Paige? It should be cool enough."

Apple opened the bread box and carefully lifted the four golden loaves one by one. "Meg?" she ventured.

"Hm?"

"Why can't I go in the west wing?"

Meg became very busy with the baking board. "Madam Grace told you not to go there, didn't she?"

Apple brushed her slightly floury hands off on the skirt of her pinafore. "Well, yes, but why can't I?" she said. "And who's Shamus?"

"Shamus…well, never mind what he was, but he's mostly a groundskeeper," Meg said."You'll meet him at some point, he's just terribly busy. Can you go down to the cellar and get half a dozen potatoes for me? Just take that door over there."

Apple edged closer. "But why can't I go into the west wing?" she persisted.

Meg sighed heavily and placed her long, narrow hands on the kitchen counter. "I can't tell you, or Madam Grace would have my head," she said, half to herself. Apple shifted from one foot to the other. "All I can say, Anne Paige, is that you don't want to go in there. It's…it's too dangerous for you." The pretty maid tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Now run fetch those potatoes, all right?"


	6. Part I Scene V

Special thanks to Elizabeth, Gotta Dance 88, zagato, slipshod, , Kates Master's Sister, and Take Your Bow for reviewing!

-

-

-

Apple trudged up the stairs, her heavy bucket in hand. When Madam Grace said "dust the bedrooms," it sounded manageable. After the past two and a half hours of whisking an old rag over the contents of thirteen bedrooms, she no longer thought it was as easy as it sounded.

The wide hallway of the east wing wound down to a smaller staircase. Unlike the heavy, broad mahogany steps of the other staircases, this flight was narrow and delicate, with gilded balustrades. Apple thought it looked familiar. Then she ran into the wide and intricately carved doors- the princess suite.

Apple fumbled in her pinafore pocket, her fingers brushing against the crispy, starched fabric. Her damp fingers closed around the golden key. She pulled it out and fitted it into the shining lock shaped like the head of a unicorn. The key made a soft clicking noise and the door swept open.

Soft shafts of light gleamed through cracks in the curtains. Apple crept into the room, her feet in her heavy leather shoes suddenly sinking into thick plush carpet. Her fingers gripped the thick silk brocade curtains and she drew them back carefully. The room flooded with late morning light. She turned around, dropping the bucket noiselessly on the floor, and stared at the princess suite.

The room was painted a soft rosy pink, with cream wainscoting and gold accents. A tall four-poster bed stood against the wall opposite the tall windows, draped in a pink gossamer cloud and covered in a cream and gold embroidered comforter. Cream bookshelves stocked with leather-bound books flanked the window. There was a little easel with paints and canvases, a round embroidery hoop with a basket of brightly colored floss, and even a darling little cream-colored baby grand piano. Apple stared agape, too distracted to dust.

She peeked inside the tall wardrobe. Dresses of every fabric and color hung from the racks, embroidered and laced and frilled. Tentatively she ran her hands down the rows of full skirts, relishing the feel of velvet and silk and satin. It reminded of the dim memories she had of her earliest childhood, of playing in her mother's wardrobe and tangling her small grubby fingers in the sleeves of her mother's best satin gown.

Reluctantly Apple closed the wardrobe and pulled out the dustcloth. She brushed the thick cotton rag over the pretty furniture, even the easel and the piano. At length she folded the cloth, slipped it in her pocket, and turned her attention to the bed. Madam Grace hadn't showed her where the fresh bed linens were kept, so she contented herself with fluffing the heaps of embroidered pillows. She even crossed over to the overstuffed armchair tucked away in a nook and fluffed the seat cushion.

A smaller, less grand door was hidden in the corner. Apple turned the knob and found herself in a spacious water closet gleaming with gold fixtures and creamy veined marble. Her shoes clicked on the brightly polished tile floor. She pulled the dustcloth out of her pocket to buff the golden faucet on the bathtub, but she halted abruptly in front of the vanity.

The large vanity with its pink powder-puff stool held brushes and combs and little pots of rouge and cream, but all Apple saw was her own reflection in the tall oval mirror. She approached it slowly.

The girl in the mirror was small for her age, with round pink cheeks lightly dusted with freckles. Her rosy lips were dainty and gapped slightly as she studied her own reflection, her pearly teeth showing slightly. Long eyelashes framed her almond-shaped smoky blue eyes that typically squinted when she smiled, but she hadn't had a reason to really smile, much less laugh, for a while. Her long red hair, thick and wavy and impossible to control, tumbled over her shoulders and down her back. She frowned; there had to be a more efficient way of keeping it out of her face. Her black dress hung on her, enveloped in her white work apron. Apple squinted at the fabric. She could still faintly see the tiny print of dark green and white checks under the layer of black dye. In her old life, when she was still the little mistress of Candlewick Orchard, this had been one of her autumn school dresses. But after her father died, Mrs. Leadbetter had taken all of her fall and winter dresses, removed the extra trimmings, and dunked the poor deconstructed gowns hastily in a pot of boiling black fabric dye.

"You're in mourning, child," the milkman's harried wife had explained while Apple stood, dry-eyed, by the steaming kettle. "You ought to be wearing black. And besides, no girl of ten needs frills and laces on her dresses."

Apple wanted to argue, but she knew it would be useless. She knew the other girls didn't like her school dresses showing three inches of eyelet lace on her petticoat and her play dresses with trimmed in embroidered ribbon. But her father liked seeing her in pretty clothes. She felt that he would rather have her in her own clothes than these black things.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, she turned resolutely away from the shining mirror and scrubbed the already gleaming water closet clean. It took the better part of an hour, but finally the princess suite was perfect. Before she left, she closed the curtains, instantly plunging the room into a cool shadiness.

Apple stepped back in the hallway, hefting her cleaning bucket, and locked the door behind her. She walked down the steps…and walked right into a tall mountain of a man.

"Hell's fire, miss, I'm terribly sorry," the man swore. "I didn't see you there."

"It's all right," Apple mumbled, ducking her head.

The tall, powerfully built man tapped her on the nose. "You're the new maid, aren't you?" he said.

She had to crane her neck to see into his face. "I'm Apple Chandler," she said, startled. "Well, Anne Paige Chandler, really, but-"

The man snapped his fingers. "Anne Paige, that's what Grace said," he said. He held out a massive hand. "I'm Shamus Philby. The…the groundskeeper."

Apple gingerly placed her small fingers in the groundskeeper's huge palm. "It's nice to meet you," she ventured.

Shamus shook her tiny hand gravely. "I don't imagine we'll see each other much, Miss Chandler," he said. "I spend most of my time in the…the…"

"The west wing?" Apple finished quietly.

Shamus grinned, a half-smile that was decidedly crooked but nevertheless nice. "You're right at that," he said ruefully. He chucked her under the chin. "Best mind your p's and q's, duckling, and stay out of there."

A low, rumbling roar reverberated through the halls of the manor. Shamus glanced up, instantly alert, his playful manner falling away. Without a word of goodbye, he took the narrow gilded stairs two at a time and loped away. Apple watched him go, the roar still echoing in her ears.

-

-

-

**Author's Notes:**

I'm glad people are enjoying this story so far! I've wanted to write it for a long time, and it's really exciting to finally get an audience.

I've gotten some questions, though, and I thought I would answer some of them.

**slipshod:** Yes, "Apple" is a terribly ridiculous name. I wanted a childish nickname and an overly grown-up full name, and Anne Paige Elizabeth with the nickname Apple seemed the best bet out of the ones I tried. And believe me, I tried plenty.

And yes, Apple punched a girl. There's going to be more on that, since Patsy Leadbetter will show up a couple more times.

**Gotta Dance 88 and Kates Master's Sister: **I love working at Disney World! I worked there in the spring of 2006 in (what used to be) the Disney-MGM Studios as a tour guide on the Great Movie Ride. I'm back in the same park (now called Disney's Hollywood Studios) as a house managing cast member at the Pixar Block Party Bash Parade, the High School Musical 3: School's Out pep rally, Fantasmic!, and Beauty and the Beast Live on Stage (where this story has been plotted). I plan on going seasonal once I complete my internship, and I might return to work in the World after my wedding.


	7. Part I Scene VI

Special thanks to Gotta Dance 88, Kates Master's Sister, Frogster, Eilean Donan, and Thai Libre for reviewing! (And sorry it took so long!)

-

-

-

Apple tugged on the sleeves of her dress as she huddled in the back row of the village church. Before her father's death, it had been her winter church dress- a soft mossy green velvet frock trimmed with real Valenciennes lace. But the lace was gone, leaving rows and rows of tiny pinprick holes, and the velvet was a streaky black. She knew she didn't look respectable anymore; she looked like…like a maid.

She glanced up at Meg and Jonathan. They sat in silence, listening to the vicar. Jonathan's eyes closed heavily and Meg nudged him awake. She caught Apple looking at her, smiled kindly, and turned her attention back to the sermon.

Apple stifled a sigh. She gazed idly around the church. The villagers she had known since babyhood sat in the same pews their families had sat in for generations. She glanced towards the front. The Chandler family row was still empty, and she was glad. She could still remember when her grandfather sat there, and her mother, and her father. Now she was the only Chandler left, and if she couldn't sit there, no one else could sit there.

Apple looked up and down the rows. Fathers nodded off, their big work-worn hands folded across their stomachs. Mothers bounced fretful babies on their knees. Pretty girls in crisply ironed dresses pretended to ignore the gawking boys making sheep's eyes at them from across the aisles. She recognized all of them.

The Leadbetter row was completely full. Mr. Leadbetter stared blankly at the vicar, his saggy-jowled face reminding Apple of an old bloodhound, while his wife kept tabs on the six little Leadbetters filling the pew. Apple was glad to be out of the row. She had had to sit between Patsy and eight-year-old Ronnie, and the two bickered so much she couldn't get a moment's peace.

Patsy reached up and fluffed the large hair ribbon on the crown of her head; her sleeve drooped over her round elbow. Apple froze. Four inches of soft lace fluttered from the end of the sleeve with stitches so wide and crooked she could see them from her seat- soft lace that she remembered well. It was the lace from her dress.

Apple's blood ran cold. She could feel the sudden angry flush flashing on her cheeks. Her lace, the lace from her Sunday best frock sewn on Patsy's cheap dress. Lost in her temper, she didn't hear another word of the sermon.

The second the benediction was announced she bolted for the door. Apple stumbled into the front lawn and hid against the side of the church. The cold autumn wind stung her cheeks, but it felt good against her hot skin. She pressed herself flat against the wall, the bricks scraping her bare forearms, as the congregation exited slowly.

She knew where Patsy would go. The village children always played under the branches of the three maple trees on the corner- the girls on their best behavior in the prettiest dresses, the boys swaggering in front of them and swapping marbles and penknives and other miscellaneous treasures in their pockets.

Apple drew closer as Patsy turned around in the center of the circle, showing off the lace hastily sewn to her maroon wool dress. "It's so pretty," one of the girls said, touching the frill lightly. "You're so lucky, Patsy. My mother said we can't afford any new trims for this fall's dresses."

"It's imported," Patsy boasted. "Mama said that I could have it if I sewed on myself. Isn't it grand?" She waved her arm, making the lace bounce and flutter. "Even Jack Casey noticed it, and he's the handsomest boy in the village. I think he's going to ask me to the harvest festival."

"I wish my mother found lace like that," another girl sighed. "When she went to the city, all she found was some silly striped braid. I look like a sailor."

"Maybe next time," Patsy said in a voice that clearly meant to be kind, but only sounded haughty. "It's hard to find lace like mine."

"It's not yours," Apple said before she could stop herself. The girls stopped and turned, their mouths gawping. In a few quick steps she was facing Patsy, her fists clenched. "It's mine. My papa bought that lace from a mantua-maker in the city, and it was put on my Sunday dress, until your stupid, silly mother took it off because she didn't think it was right. But what's really not right is that she gave it to you!"

Patsy's mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. Apple seethed, her teeth clenched. The other girls drifted back, escaping to the safety of their mothers' sides. Patsy looked like she might be sorry, but then her expression changed to almost a sneer. "Maids don't wear lace, Anne Paige Chandler," she said. She looked Apple up and down; Apple stared straight ahead, ignoring the hot embarrassed flush rising to her cheeks. Patsy leaned back and crossed her arms, flashing a self-satisfied smile. Apple just stared. Everything about Patsy was round: round face, round palms, round blue eyes. Even her shoulder-length yellow hair seemed round. Apple wanted to prick her with a pin and watch her deflate.

"Oi, Apple," a village boy called. He dropped out of the maple tree. "I didn't know you were still around."

Patsy stopped sneering as she blinked her round blue eyes at Jack Casey, the blacksmith's son. "Oh, she doesn't live in the village anymore, Jack, she's a maid at Rosethwaite," she said.

Jack's thick brunet brows shot up. "Is it really haunted there?" he asked.

"No," Apple snapped.

"I heard that there was a whole part of the manor that no one can go into anymore," Patsy said. "Isn't that true?"

Apple hesitated. A gleeful smirk spread across Patsy's face. "It is true, isn't it?" she said.

"Nobody goes in the west wing," she defended.

"I bet you don't go in there just because you're scared," Patsy jeered.

Apple rolled her eyes. "I'm as scared of the west wing as I am of you, Patsy Leadbetter, and that means not at all," she shot back.

Patsy screwed her round mouth up and scowled. "You're just…you're only…" she sputtered. Then she paused and tossed her yellow bobbed hair. "You really think you're brave enough to go into the west wing on your own?"

"Of course," Apple said loftily.

Patsy smoothed her hair. "Then you can spend the whole night in the west wing, and tell us all about it," she preened.

Apple dug her fingernails into her palms, the pain distracting her for a moment, and then she let go. "Only if you give me my lace back," she said.

Patsy opened her mouth to argue, but Jack interrupted. "Sounds fair," he said. "Bring something from the west wing. It'll be an even trade."

"What if I bring back just any old thing?" Apple shot back.

"You're the one who's always talking about your stupid Chandler pride," Patsy sneered. "You wouldn't lie about something that puts your precious family name to shame."

Apple opened her mouth, then closed it with a thin-lipped glare.

"Anne Paige!" Meg called. "Come along."

"Yes, Anne Paige, run along," Patsy said. Apple turned on her toe and stormed away.

Meg and Jonathan stood by the pony cart. "We're going to get lunch at the inn," Jonathan said. "Do you want to come with us?"

"I'm not hungry," Apple said in a low voice.

"Are you sure?" Meg said. "It'll be quite a while until dinner at the manor."

"I'm sure," Apple said.

Meg studied her sharply. "All right," she said. "Meet us here at three o'clock." Apple nodded and walked away.

She knew where she was going, and she knew the path so well she could walk it in her sleep. Apple walked fast, taking long angry strides.

Even before her father died, she didn't like visiting in the village. It was too strange there. People were too nosy, too opinionated. She preferred the quiet, solitary ife at the orchard.

It took a good fifteen minutes before she saw the first sign of the curving stone walls that marked the orchard's boundaries. Her grandparents' grandparents had erected the tall fences when they first founded the apple orchards. As a little girl she would clamber up the sides and sit on the top; when she was older and had her first pony she learned to jump them.

Apple climbed up the fence easily, hitching the skirts of her black dress out of her way. She sat on the top and surveyed the fields below. The Crimson Griffins were turning a brilliant shade of red by now, nearly ready to harvest. They were always the last ones, she remembered. And they were planted on the southern fields, so they could get more sunlight. Apple dashed at her damp cheeks with the backs of her palms.

"You there! Off the fence! This is private property, you!"

Apple struggled to her feet, standing on the top of the fence. "Roxam!" she called. "It's me, Roxam!"

The grizzled old groundskeeper dropped his pruning shears. "Little Missus?" he gawked.

Apple dropped from the fence and ran to him. "Roxam!" she shouted.

He caught her up in his arms, holding her up like he did when she was just a little girl. "Little Missus, I've missed you something fierce," Roxam said, grinning broadly. "It's not the same, what with you and your father both gone."

"Are you harvesting the Crimson Griffins?" Apple asked.

Roxam bounced her up a little bit; she balanced her hands on his shoulders. "That's our little missus, always keeping a calm head," he said. "Yes, yes, we're harvesting the Griffins. The landlord is having us ship them into the big town at the end of the month." He shook his head. "I can't believe those guardians of yours. They don't care to live here, they don't let you live here, and now our own little missus is someone else's servant."

"They're kind to me, Roxam," Apple said.

He set her down as cautiously as he would a piece of glass. "Don't matter," he said. "You're a lady. You've been our lady since you were four years old and your dear mother died. You shouldn't need to work for anyone else."

Apple shifted awkwardly. "I know," she said quietly.

"And it's best that you stay careful," Roxam warned. "I've heard things about that Rosethwaite place. You're not doing anything dangerous, are you?"

Apple thought briefly about Patsy's sneer and the sagging lace. "Of course not," she said. "I'm always careful."

-

-

-

**Author's Notes:**

It has been a hectic couple of weeks. Seriously. Crazy.

So now we have seen Patsy in action. And now we know why Apple punched her.

I think I want to explain a little bit about Apple. I wanted her to be a little bit spoiled, a little bit bratty. She's used to being the mistress of Candlewick Orchard, not a scullery maid. I think it'll make the dynamics between Adam and Apple even more interesting.

I've started posting my original novel on fanfiction too. (Shh, don't tell the mods…). It's called _Beatrice and the Cat_, and so far…no one has reviewed it. Oh, well. Only the prologue is up so far. But if you enjoy this…I hope you enjoy Beatrice too!

And hopefully I'll update TWORM soon. That's a silly acronym…oh, well.


End file.
